1We live in an age of historical apologies. For the past quarter century, we have seen national heads of state and religious leaders issue numerous apologies for what their nations and churches did to aggrieved peoples in the near and distant past. What had begun as a relative novelty in the mid-1980s became a more pronounced and regular practice in the 1990s, and then effloresced in the political apologies leading up to and consummated in the Jubilee year of the millennium. We can no longer dismiss these apologies as rare or strange; instead, we have to recognize that they have become a defining feature of our era. We live in a time when the Pope apologizes to groups as large as women, Jews, Moslems, and Protestants, an epoch in which priests and presidents apologize for events as world-defining as the Holocaust, the Crusades, the slave trade, and the Counter-Reformation, an era when every anniversary evokes memories of former atrocities and expectations of formal apologies. In a word, we live in a ‘guilted age.’

2This guilted age is part of a grander movement in recent history that has revealed both the depths of human depravity and the resilience of human efforts to achieve justice. The century just ended saw the most vicious acts of exploitation, torture, and genocide in the name of imperialistic nationalism, religious fundamentalism, and racism. Yet the last half-century has also witnessed the contraction of colonial powers, the collapse of several totalitarian regimes, and the overthrow of juntas that practice torture. It has also witnessed the emergence of a set of strategies for survivors to come to terms with their historic traumas under those regimes. Those strategies include war crimes tribunals, truth and reconciliation commissions, systems of lustration, and human rights cases before the World Court.

3The most clear-cut arguments for and against all the strategies— trials, tribunals, commissions—involve a debate between those who advocate justice and those who advocate peace; in other words, between those who believe that the crimes of the past need to be punished through the channels and means of retributive justice and those who believe reconciliation or amnesty would more effectively permit a viable future and argue for what they call ‘restorative justice.’1 There are no easy answers to that debate, and even the most appealing formulations—like ‘no peace without justice’—expose the difficulty of trying to resolve the tension between redressing the past and assuring a future, between punishing past crimes and establishing fragile democracies. I would urge us to remember that in this debate neither position is ‘idealist, ’ and neither position ‘realist.’ It is not idealistic or realistic to want justice for those who promoted torture or maintained a system of apartheid or participated in the ‘disappearing’ of innocent civilians. Nor is it idealistic or realistic to want a vibrant democracy in a state where many citizens were complicit in those systems of torture, apartheid, and human rights abuses. Easy answers are deceptive, and easy categorizations of different positions are unwarranted. It is important to remember that, in historical terms, we have only recently begun to develop a vocabulary to describe the level of suffering we have seen (the word ‘racism’ was coined in 1933, the word ‘genocide’ in 1944). And now we are in the midst of a new development, the effort to find language, media, and appropriate forms to describe how to expose and acknowledge that suffering. It is within this particular framework— the series of strategies for coming to terms with historic traumas— that we can most fully understand the dynamics of the historical apology.

4Let me briefly note the primary terms of debate for those engaged in arguments about the virtues or failings of historical apologies.

5The most common objections to the spectacle of church and national leaders apologizing for grievances they did not commit, events that happened a hundred or five hundred years ago, and atrocities for which nothing more is offered than contrition, is that these historical apologies are nothing more than a spectacle. Some call it a form of ‘cheap grace, ’ atonement without the rigor of remorse and restitution. Others see it as audacious in those leaders’ assumption that they can speak on behalf of either a dead past or a not entirely contrite congregation or constituency. Critics of historical apologies usually fall into two groups; those who believe that apologies are not enough and those who believe apologies are unnecessary. Those in the first group argue that such acts should be accompanied with material reparations, or that it cheapens a tragic historical experience to believe that it can be forgiven. Those in the second group resist the idea that guilt can be collective or responsibility transmitted, and they believe that only those culpable of committing the crime can apologize, and that only those actually and directly victimized can forgive.

6Those who do see in historical apologies some promise emphasize that symbolic acts do have deep meanings. They believe that such gestures are less important in redressing the actual victimization of the past and more important in establishing a shared truth about the crime and expressing a future commitment to the shared humanity of the victims and the offenders. They believe that such historical apologies can prevent a cycle of retributive violence, lead to collective healing, and promote reconciliation. Many, if not most, approach the problem with the discourse either of therapy (to heal the wounds of the past) or religion (to hate the sin, forgive the sinner).

7Recent writers on historical apologies have attempted to respond to at least one critical point raised by those critics who see it as a meaningless gesture if it is unaccompanied by material reparations of some sort. Historian Elazar Barkan who is primarily an advocate for restitution—the return of ‘specific actual belongings’ such as art, land, and ancestral remains to those from whom it was stolen, and the reparation of material recompense for that which cannot be returned, such as loss of human lives, flourishing cultures, economies, and identities—sees historical apologies as ‘both feasible and necessary in restitution.’ Apologies in a restitution case force a nation to acknowledge that their ‘heroic national history’ is at least partially filled with ‘exploitative and criminal’ events, and provide for those exploited and hurt by that historical injustice the opportunity to be recognized and to mourn and heal.2 Political scientist Mark Amstutz likewise situates historical apologies within the context of other forms of symbolic and material restitution. What he calls ‘political forgiveness’ (although he describes a process that involves both apologies and forgiveness) is a ‘demanding ethic that calls on political actors to confront their culpability and responsibility through the acknowledgement of truth, the expression of remorse, and a willingness to offer reparations and accept punishment.’ The promise of ‘political forgiveness, ’ for Amstutz, is that it can heal both victims and offenders and produce either national or international reconciliation.3

8These, then, are the major, but certainly not the only, arguments offered by the critics and the advocates of historical apologies.

9Let us turn now to a representative historical apology, offered by Japan’s Prime Minister Tomiichi Murayama for the acts of colonization Japan practiced against other Asian nations prior to and during World War II. On August 15, 1995, Murayama offered what he called his ‘heartfelt apology’ to those nations. Here are his words on that occasion:

During a certain period in the not too distant past, Japan, following a mistaken national policy, advanced along the road to war, only to ensnare the Japanese people in a fateful crisis, and, through its colonial rule and aggression, caused tremendous damage and suffering to the people of many countries, particularly to those of Asian nations. In the hope that no such mistake be made in the future, I regard, in a spirit of humility, these irrefutable facts of history, and express here once again my feelings of deep remorse and state my heartfelt apology. Allow me also to express my feelings of profound mourning for all victims, both at home and abroad, of that history.

10The nationally-televised speech was delivered from Murayama’s home and was given just before he attended a ceremony commemorating the 50th anniversary of the end of World War II.

11This apology for colonization is representative of a number of similar apologies for historical atrocities. In analyzing it, I think, we can see what precisely is at stake in these high-profile symbolic gestures. Because of constraints of space, I am going to limit our discussion to three specific topics: the logistics, the rhetoric, and the representativeness of the historical apology.

12The first point I want to take up is logistics. Historical apologies, like private apologies, mean more or less depending on where and when they are offered. When President Clinton, for instance, offered words of regret about America’s involvement in the slave trade, there were many who wondered about his doing it in Uganda rather than on the West Coast of Africa to which most African Americans trace their African ancestry. In Japan, there was widespread speculation about what it meant for Prime Minister Murayama to deliver the apology before and not at the 50th anniversary ceremony. For some, it weakened the apology and made it less representative of the nation, while for others its separation from the ritual ceremonial proceedings gave it greater force as a state address.

13In a personal apology, the rhetoric of an apology is obviously important since what is said, and how it is said, will reveal the degree of sincerity of the person apologizing and also the full realization of the wrong for which the apology is being offered. We all recognize failed apologies when they attempt to exculpate the actor rather than accept responsibility, or when they are not sufficiently cognizant of the wrong for which they are offered. In historical apologies, offered from one nation to another, the rhetoric also reveals the degree to which the nation apologizing recognizes the other nation, and recognizes it as an equal. The rhetoric of the prime minister’s apology was closely scrutinized for what precise language was used. This was important because Japanese politicians before Murayama had expressed ‘regret’ and some degree of ‘remorse, ’ but had never used the words indicating ‘apology.’ (This is a point to which I will return shortly). Yet his apology was rendered less effective by three other rhetorical acts in his speech.

14First, the prime minister reminded his audience that Japan was ‘the only country to have experienced the devastation of atomic bombing, ’ a point that at least hinted at the idea that acts conducted during war are less subject to moral judgment. The reference also makes less stark the difference between those who are aggressors (those apologizing) and those who are victims (those who receive or felt owed an apology). Second, the prime minister was unwilling to affix blame where many felt it belonged. In the question and answer period following the apology, Murayama denied that Emperor Hirohito was responsible, stating instead: ‘It is well known that the Emperor prayed for peace in the world, and made his utmost efforts to avoid the war, and it was the Emperor who decisively judged to end the war.’4 What was an absolute necessity for any Japanese politician—the need to ensure that the royal family is not implicated—starkly revealed the difference between how Japan and the nations it colonized viewed the offenses that were the subject of the apology. Finally, the prime minister was remarkably vague in his description of those offenses. The media in Japan had reported that Murayama had spent the days leading up to August 15th studying West German President Richard von Weizsacker’s famous 1985 apology on the fortieth anniversary of Germany’s defeat in W.W. II. After the Japanese prime minister’s apology, newspapers looked at the notable differences between the two speeches to see how the Japanese apology was less evocative, less specific, seemingly less able to describe in meaningful detail just what was done that merited an apology.

15This ambiguity was also an issue later that afternoon, at the 50th anniversary celebration, when Emperor Akihito declared: ‘I, along with all the nation’s people, hereby express my deep mourning over those who died.’ The ‘nation’s people, ’ on whose behalf these words were spoken, wondered aloud just who was being mourned—the Japanese soldiers who perished in the war or all the soldiers and civilian victims killed by Japanese soldiers. In other words, was the Emperor adding to or refuting the prime minister’s apology? Just to give this point some context, it is important to note that the prime minister’s own cabinet had expressed dissent by going to the Yasakuni Shrine earlier that day; the Yasakuni Shrine is the place where Japanese soldiers who died in battle are honored and worshipped. The cabinet members’ attendance was meant as a rebuke to a leader who focused on other nations’ suffering on a day meant to commemorate Japan’s war dead.5 The question was whether or not the Emperor had done the same thing. In response to media queries about the ambiguity of the Emperor’s statement, officials at the Imperial Household Agency and the Foreign Ministry claimed not to know what the Emperor meant, while the Ministry of Health and Welfare insisted that the Emperor was mourning only the Japanese dead.6

16The third and final point I will address concerns representativeness, by which I mean the question of how much these apologies actually express the feelings of the people in whose name they are spoken. The fact that the prime minister had used the language he did (‘apology’) had raised concerns among some who felt that these words did not represent Japanese citizens’ sentiments, or even those of their own representatives. The Japanese House of Representatives had earlier that summer had a divisive debate and finally passed a Resolution that used the term ‘fukai hansei’ (‘deep remorse’) and not ‘shazai’ or ‘owabi’ (‘apology’). In addition, half the 502 members of Parliament did not even vote on the Resolution, expressing their disapproval through abstention. The former minister of education went so far as to conduct a national campaign and claimed to have collected 4.5 million signatures on a petition condemning the resolution.7 We also recall that the cabinet ministers had likewise expressed their disapprobation by attending the Yasakuni temple. In other words, the prime minister’s apology resonated less as a national expression, surrounded as it was by other symbolic acts of dissent.

17What, then, can we make of this historical apology? It was hailed as a considerable step forward (the first Japanese politician willing to use the language of apology) in a so-called ‘shame culture’ where apologies are not trivial events.8 It was also criticized, as we saw above, by both those who wanted a fuller, more responsibility-accepting apology and also those who believed Japan had nothing for which to apologize. I would like to suggest one more way we can understand what is at stake in historical apologies, and what the dynamics of this particular one teaches us. In both personal and historical apologies, one key indicator of an apology’s appropriateness is the degree to which it repents of or replicates the historical dynamic for which it is offered.

18Let me give an example of what I mean. Let us say I were apologizing to someone whose intelligence I just happened to insult. It would not show genuine remorse or understanding on my part for me to offer the following apology, for instance: ‘I am truly sorry that I insulted your intelligence. Does your brain understand what I am saying?’ Such an apology not only fails to acknowledge the event for which I am apologizing, but rather repeats the insult within the apology.

19What happened in Japan on August 15, 1995 was not quite so insulting to the nations to whom the prime minister apologized, but the apology failed of its purpose precisely because it did indeed discursively replicate the historical dynamic of colonization, most evidently in its logistics and its rhetoric.

20The more meaningful debate over logistics, it seems to me, concerns the choice of date for the apology. August 15, 1945 marks the date ending W.W. II, and it seems on the face of it to be an opportune time to reflect on crimes of all sorts. But it strikes me as more important that it is also a date much more significant to the history of Japan than to the nations it colonized. True enough, it is the date of Japan’s moment of defeat, and therefore the date at which its colonization of Asian nations came to an end. But it is nonetheless a date more central to Japanese history, more a part of Japan’s symbolic universe, and to that extent more clearly making the point that those nations who had been subject to Japan’s imperial imperative were at least still subject to its historical calendar. Consider how different an apology would be if it were offered on the anniversary of the date Japan began its colonization—rather than had it ended by forces beyond its control. Such an apology would resonate much more precisely because it would be offered on a date that was symbolic for the victimized people.

21Let me end by returning to the debate about the rhetoric of the apology. The apology was offered to ‘Asian nations, ’ nothing more specific. Korea was not specifically named... Korea, which Japan colonized from 1910 to 1945, Korea whose so-called ‘comfort women’ (two hundred thousand of them) were made into sex slaves by the Japanese Imperial Army. Nor was China named, where that same Imperial Army, in the so-called ‘Rape of Nanking, ’ massacred three hundred thousand civilians and raped eighty thousand women.9 Yet even more disturbing than the failure of the prime minister to specify which nations his nation was sorry for colonizing— or the failure to specify what crimes it was sorry it committed against those nations—is the public debate about the Emperor’s ambiguity. What does it mean for these nations to be so ambiguous a referent that they do not know whether or not they have in fact been offered an apology? What it means—in this particular historical dynamic—is that those who were exploited because they were deemed marginal, unimportant, and subject to the power, language, and intention of a more powerful nation, were deemed to be just that still.

22It would be overly dramatic and inaccurate to say that this apology re-enacted colonization—for that would considerably misrepresent the trauma, exploitation, and suffering involved in actual colonization—but it is perhaps worth noting to what extent the apology reinforces the power differentials that colonization abused and exaggerated. Successful apologies for historical atrocities need to be more sensitive to and respectful of the symbolic geographies and symbolic chronologies of the nations to whom the apologies are offered, and much more obviously aware of the crimes and responsibilities of those apologizing and the understanding and standing of those being asked to forgive.

23Let me offer a few concluding thoughts about historical apologies. First, if historical apologies become even more a regular event in political affairs, as they seem destined to do, we are likely to see a distinct pattern develop in which the colonized nations of the past will have no choice in being cast as the forgiving nations of the present. On the whole, in these spectacles of public apologies little thought seems to be given to the possibility that the apologies might not be accepted. We know that in personal relations not to accept an apology makes us look churlish and uncharitable, so we often accept an apology even if we have not forgiven the person offering it. It is plausible that nations and groups would be likewise judged for their ‘failures’ to accept heartfelt apologies from their oppressors. A danger in that dynamic is that apologies—offered by the formerly colonizing and currently powerful nations to those formerly colonized and currently less powerful ones—can recreate invidious categories in the sense of creating widespread beliefs that a certain kind of people are more contrite and another more accepting. To what extent, one wonders, would this indicate or create or recreate a belief that there are a ‘race’ of forgiving people and that forgiving people have a ‘race’? Probably the most famous attempt to make forgiveness a cultural (quasi-racial) property came from Archbishop Desmond Tutu, who defined ubuntu as a central feature of the African worldview, and the ethic of forgiveness as a central feature of ubuntu (31). Wole Soyinka, who is paraphrasing a negritude poet, puts it more mordantly, ‘To err is human, to forgive, African.’10 The danger, then, is that forgiveness will become a racial attribute, the special gift in a particular group of people, ennobled and not made bitter by their historical suffering.

24A second consideration involves the existential status of the historical atrocities for which these apologies are offered. Once they become acknowledged, what happens to them? Let us remember that acts of apologizing and forgiving are, for most of us, events that matter in our personal lives. Let us also note that theorists of political apologies and forgiveness often assume that these acts in the public sphere would possess the very same dynamics and expectations that mark personal acts of atonement. In private, we ‘forgive and forget, ’ as the saying goes. Forgiving, according to political theorist Hannah Arendt, is a ‘redemption from the predicament of irreversibility—of being unable to undo what one has done’— because forgiving ‘serves to undo the deeds of the past.’11 When that ability to forget and undo the past is extrapolated from the private realm to the public—when, for instance, Pope John Paul II says we ought to approach the millennial Jubilee year in a spirit of what he called ‘the purification of memory, ’ or when Amstutz notes that forgiving requires ‘a moral reformation of memory’ (Amstutz 2005: ix)12—we are in quite different waters. In personal relationships, it would be difficult to imagine the pain of having to live without the power to undo what we did to hurt those we love most. In politics, though, the power to undo is a much more nefarious thing.

25The alternative, of course, is not forgetting or undoing, but rather something for which we do not yet have a name. In an essay published at the fall of the Third Reich, Hannah Arendt noted that many Germans told her that they were ashamed of being German. She responded by saying she felt tempted ‘to answer that I am ashamed of being human.’ What she calls this ‘elemental shame, ’ shared across cultures and nations, she concludes, ‘has not yet found an adequate political expression.’13 Others who have studied other transitions from fascist, tyrannical regimes to democratic ones have also struggled to find ways to describe that condition of moving from one state to another, without an ‘adequate political expression’ to describe and assuage the ‘shame’ of the previous order. A psychologist commenting on Uruguay’s transition from an undemocratic to a democratic regime suggested that the amnesty of the previous regime was an evasion of history: ‘It’s Oedipus, it’s Hamlet: the curse of the unpunished crime. When murder is not atoned for in some way, it will out in other ways.’14 Tina Rosenberg called her remarkable book on post-Communist Eastern Europe The Haunted Land.15 Stories of a post-colonized world are also ghost stories (like Hamlet) and also about the haunted landscape where place names resonate for us by recalling the atrocities that happened there (Nanking, El-Mina, Hiroshima, Auschwitz). Our guilted age is also a haunted age. As one commentator puts it, ‘the atrocities of the past become ghosts within the memory of a people crying out for justice.’16 And it is likely that those nations hoping to assuage their postcolonial guilt, or exorcise their postcolonial ghosts, will have to develop or reinvent mechanisms for establishing justice and strategies for coming to terms with historical traumas. These mechanisms cannot be the sorts which leave both the former colonizer and the formerly colonized more impoverished by the process; those strategies cannot reify the roles for which the apology is offered. It is likely that such mechanisms—tribunals, commissions, and courts, among others—will have a place for historical apologies, since so many former victims so often and eloquently express what such apologies can mean for them. But those apologies must be offered on their terms, and sensitive to their symbolic geographies and their symbolic calendars. It is well to remember that graveyard apologies serve only those who make them. They do not answer the needs of the ghosts haunting them.